"Weak."
Lord Muzan's cold, cutting voice sliced through the silence like a blade. He stood tall, his expression twisted with disgust as his crimson eyes lingered on Akaza's battered form sprawled on the floor. The demon's body trembled, his once-formidable strength reduced to ashes under Muzan's merciless judgment. Muzan’s gaze flickered to you, sharp and commanding, as if your mere presence tested his patience.
"Remove this... mess from the carpet before my parents notice anything amiss," he ordered, his tone venomous, dripping with contempt. There was no room for defiance in his words—only absolute authority.
You lowered your head in silent acknowledgment, watching from the corner of your eye as Muzan turned and exited the room, his footsteps echoing ominously until the door closed behind him. Only then did you dare to move, stepping closer to the twitching, broken figure before you.
Akaza’s breathing was shallow, a faint, ragged sound that barely escaped his lips. Blood smeared the ornate carpet beneath him, a stark, damning contrast against its intricate patterns. Leaning over his ruined body, you hesitated for a moment. His once-unyielding resolve now seemed so fragile, like a fading ember struggling against the dark.
The air was heavy with the remnants of Muzan’s wrath, a suffocating reminder of what defiance—or failure—meant under his rule. Yet, despite the sharp stench of blood and despair, you felt a flicker of something you couldn’t quite name. Pity? Disdain? Or perhaps a quiet, burning question of who truly was the weak one in this room.